Desperation

It turns out my hairdresser was on her high school swim team, so she was able to give me some pointers for the triathlon.

But that's not really what I want to talk about. What I want to talk about is how I'm pissed off by pieces of weird chicken that make me gag and have to spit out a bite of my lunch. And also, I'm pissed that although Noah and I both work full time, we don't have a Nest Egg. I mean, we do have a little nest egg—like a hummingbird nest egg. But what I really want is an ostrich nest egg.

Actually that's not what I really want. What I really want is to still have my income tax refund at the same time as having everything we bought with it: our truck, my new bike, my triathlon clothes, a renovated bathroom. You know, the having cake and eating it thing.

Speaking of cake, I probably shouldn't have eaten that cupcake last night. The one with the cream cheese frosting. The one with the cream cheese frosting that had been sitting out unrefrigerated for like four days. Not that anything bad happened, but I swear to you the moment I swallowed the last bite I could feel a slight burning sensation in my esophagus that I just knew indicated that the cupcake, despite appearances, was rancid. Owing to the fact that I didn't wake up to the horrible but all-too-familiar urge to power vomit (something I've perfected in these last two years of child bearing and rearing), I can tell that the cupcake wasn't rancid, but deep down inside I still can't help but worry.

Which brings me back to the chicken. I would be a vegetarian if I didn't like so many dishes that have meat in them. And in fact I was a vegetarian for Lent. But every time I get too comfortable and quit inspecting my food closely before each bite, that's exactly the moment when The Weird Bits attack, like that weird bit of chicken on my BBQ chicken pizza at lunch.

And while we're talking about it, let me just say this: it's BARBECUE not BBQ. And not even barbeque, although I sometimes wish it was.